


Head Full of Drought

by saidthemagpie



Category: Hanna Is Not A Boy's Name
Genre: Alcohol, Blood Drinking, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Slash, Strangulation, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:36:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saidthemagpie/pseuds/saidthemagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conrad just wants to go home. Worth just wants to forget about him. Casimiro just wants to have fun, whatever the cost to the people he's playing with. </p>
<p>Contains: implied Conrad/Worth, violent dub-con Casimiro/Worth, unfriendly banter, drinking (both alcohol and blood), dangerous breathplay, introspection on the part of a masochistic addict.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Head Full of Drought

Part I: Conrad  
  
Conrad had realized that he was being followed two blocks back. At first it was just a suspicious prickling sensation on the back of his neck, easily chalked up to his normal level of paranoia. Then, a more confirmative glimpse of a shadow slipping back into an alleyway set his jaw clenching and his pace quickening. Soft rustlings gave way to actual, honest-to-God footsteps after one block, and then it was all Conrad could do to keep himself from whirling around to look. It was harder still not to simply bolt towards the nearest dumpster and dive into it, praying all the while that whoever or whatever was stalking him would turn up its nose at such an audacious display of cowardice. Sure, running to a well-lit area might be a better choice, but he was on his way back from Worth's, so the “safe spaces to run to” count hadn't yet climbed beyond zero. He'd told himself to remain calm ( _yeah fucking right_ screeched his amygdala as it went about its routine panic) and to keep going---he couldn't be more than a few minutes from actual civilization.  
  
Finally, the shelter of a 24-hour diner gleamed neon salvation up ahead, and that was when he heard the cackling behind him. A chill raked up his spine---the laugh was oddly familiar. Giving in to equal parts terror and curiosity, Conrad turned, and was met by a pair of mismatched eyes and the glint of perfectly sharp teeth emerging from darkness.   
  
“Boo,” grinned Casimiro, and then his face contorted in another fit of laughter.   
  
Conrad stared wide-eyed for a moment, then his shoulders went slack and he rolled his eyes in exasperation. Even with the understanding that he most certainly was not yet  _safe_ , he couldn't help feeling the tiniest bit of relief to be facing an evil he knew. “You know, that really wasn't funny the first time,” he moaned.   
  
“No? Well, watching you trying not to piss your pants for the past ten minutes was fucking hilarious.”   
  
“Why the hell were you following me?” Conrad spat, trying not to let the sudden hot flush of embarrassment get up into his face. He had some of Worth's blood in him, though---not much, not enough, there'd been some words and he'd stormed out before they'd “finished”---but the little color it leant to his cheeks was now actively betraying him. He glanced around, and yes, there was a bulkier shadow further back---Finas, leaning against a burnt-out streetlamp. Wonderful. Conrad's night---which had quickly gone from bad to worse ( _from bad to Worth_  his brain echoed hollowly)---had finally plummeted to miserable.   
  
 _Fuck my life_ , Conrad sighed internally.  _Unlife. Whatever._  
  
“Ah, well, the night is young and there's always time for a little entertainment before a meal. Speaking of which...” Suddenly Casimiro was only inches away, leaning down slightly and...sniffing, oddly enough, at the air around the shorter man. Conrad froze, confused and panicked. After a moment Casimiro leaned back, eyes narrowed to slits. “Enjoy your dinner?”  
  
“W-what, what are you talking about, I don't know what you mean---” Conrad fumbled, shying away from the piercing red and white gaze. It wasn't unthinkable that the older vampire could smell Worth on him---after all, the “doctor” positively reeked of smoke and sweat and God knows what else---but Conrad was beginning to suspect that there were more than a few vampiric senses and abilities he was lacking.  
  
“I have to say I'm surprised,” Casimiro continued nonchalantly. “I mean, I figured you for a bagger as soon as I met you...but you've obviously been busy. Who is he? Smells like an addict.” That throaty, wolfish laugh again, and, “Now that's a shock. You don't look like a lush at all. Does he, Fin.” The other vampire, who had somehow crossed the empty street in the time it took Conrad to blink, said nothing. His mouth, however, was a thin line of annoyance, and he was looking at Casimiro with impatience. If the taller man noticed, he ignored it---it was plain to see that Casimiro was in no hurry at all.   
  
“Look like a  _what?_ ” Conrad blinked.   
  
It was Casimiro's turn for a dramatic eye-roll. “Oh, I'm sorry, sometimes I forget that you were sired yesterday, and by accident, and by that ridiculous bitch whore of a---”  
  
“Casimiro,” came the low rumble from Finas. There was an acid glance between them, and then Casimiro looked back and smiled the most unconvincing and unnerving smile Conrad had ever seen.   
  
“Right. A lush,” he drawled, slowly as one might talk to a child, “is a vampire who enjoys drinking...from someone who enjoys drinking. Or pills. Or anything else that gets you up, down, or sideways.” He flashed his fangs in a wicked grin that clearly signaled his own preference for drugged blood.   
  
Conrad did  _not_  want to have that in common, didn't want to have  _anything_  in common with the semi-psychotic figure in front of him, and it wasn't really as though he _preferred_  it when Worth had been drinking or doing whatever else got him (and then Conrad by proxy) all hazy and warm, and the first time it happened Conrad hadn't even known what was going on so he clearly wasn't looking for it and he was _not_  a lush and----   
  
A quick snap of Casimiro's long tan fingers right in front of his face brought him back to reality. Conrad turned away, more flustered than ever. The diner was so close, surely they wouldn't follow him in, maybe if he could just make a dash for it...  
  
“Right, well, thanks for the...educational moment, and I really do have to be going now so I'll just---”  
  
A firm hand on his shoulder stopped his feet before they even registered the signal to move. “We're almost through here,” smiled Casimiro, mock-reassuringly. “I just need a name.”  
  
Conrad stared again, at first truly baffled as to what the other man was asking him. Then it dawned, slow and terrible---he wanted to see Worth. Wanted to...no. No. As much as he hated that man, as often as he cursed him and regretted ever opening that third alley door, he knew he wouldn't wish something like Casimiro on his worst enemy. Which, come to think of it, was probably still Worth.  
  
“Come on, Connie, be a pal and share a little,” Casimiro continued, slinging an arm around Conrad's shoulders playfully. “Isn't that what friends are for? I mean, people like us, we gotta stick together...”  
  
Conrad glanced helplessly at Finas, who looked almost embarrassed but made no attempt to derail his partner's tormenting. The young vampire closed his eyes and tried his damnedest to steady himself, and then gingerly removed Casimiro's arm from his shoulder and stepped backwards a pace.   
  
“No,” he said quietly, staring at his feet, and then a surge of adrenaline filled him and he looked up. “Fuck off.”  
  
He regretted it instantly. A snarl started to curl back Casimiro's upper lip and for a moment Conrad thought it was all over, had a mental image of his disemboweled body spread across the pavement for some unfortunate jogger to trip over in the morning, but then Finas had Casimiro by the back of his jacket and was yanking him away.  
  
“We are _leaving_ ,” he growled, and Casimiro shrugged angrily out of his grasp but seemed less than inclined to argue. The taller vampire fixed Conrad with a cold stare.  
  
“Sooner or later you're gonna learn, kid,” he hissed, “that there are rules to this game. You're not one of them anymore. If you can't play for the right side, someone's gonna knock you off the board.”   
  
A pause, and then Casimiro grinned again, lightning-quick and equally lethal. He turned away and began to follow Finas back into the blackness pooling at the end of the street, laughing darkly to himself. After a moment, only the bleak echo of laughter remained.  
  
Conrad took that opportunity to flee.  
  
* * *  
  
  
Interlude: Casimiro  
  
He hadn't really needed the name. One whiff and he had known who that miserable excuse for a vampire had been spending his evenings with, even knew where to find him---after all, Conrad wasn't their only mutual acquaintance. True, he'd never actually met the man, but he'd smelled him on Lamont now and again, and one night he'd finally coaxed (okay, pressured...maybe threatened) him into explaining who most of the dried blood on his shirt belonged to.   
  
He knew the name. He'd just wanted to see whether or not Conrad had the balls to try to protect his own turf. And he'd been surprised, sure, but not discouraged. Oh, no. Knowing that this particular human somehow mattered to the young vampire just made it better.   
  
It was high time that Casimiro paid this “Doctor” Luce Worth a visit.   
  
  
* * *  
  
Part II: Worth  
  
The fluorescent light flickered and buzzed overhead, somehow managing to make the tiny bathroom feel even more claustrophobic---as if the walls moved in during those split-seconds of darkness and jumped back as soon as the light returned. Worth held his hands under the rusty faucet, caught the icy water in his palms and brought it up to his face. He glanced up to the mirror and was transfixed for a moment by the way the droplets ran down his gaunt cheeks. He cocked his head to the side to alter their courses, following their individual paths for a moment before losing interest and straightening up.  
  
 _Fuck this_ , he thought bitterly. It was time for a drink---no sense in letting the night go to waste moping about like prissy little One-Fanged Wonder. It had been half an hour since Conrad had slammed the door to Worth's office behind him, leaving the doctor still leaning against his desk with a little blood drying on his wrist and a raging hard-on completely neglected in his pants. Ah well. It was a thin line he walked with the vampire----push just enough and Conrad would give him everything he wanted. Push too hard, even a hair over the edge, and he'd be gone.  
  
Worth was pretty sure he'd been getting better at it lately, but apparently tonight he'd tripped up. Figured that it would have been something about Conrad's mother that would set him off. He could barely even remember what he'd said, only that Conrad had pulled back in shock and stared at him for a few seconds before delivering a (delightfully hard) punch to Worth's gut, shouting something at him and turning tail.   
  
Frustrated, Worth had sat on his desk for a few minutes staring at the back of his office door, then heaved a sigh and lit up a cigarette. He'd wrapped the bloody bite mark up in a fresh bandage and then sat down to try to get a little work done, but Connie running off in the middle of what was quite probably (according to his dick, anyway) gearing up to be great sex had put him in a foul mood, and he was having more than the usual amount of trouble concentrating.   
  
He flicked the light off in the bathroom and stepped out into the hallway adjoining his front office, then took a left into the back room where he kept most of his things and the dirty old mattress he slept on. The “medicine” cabinet was running a little low---he'd have to talk to Monty about that. There was nothing---from hospital supplies to arcane herbs to hard liquor---that that man did not traffic in. Everything had its price, of course, but Lamont wasn't a hard man to bargain with. Turning the key in the lock (some things were worth protecting), he surveyed his collection, eyes finally landing on a bottle of Jack Daniels that looked three quarters empty already. It'd do---just something to warm his belly and take the edge off the mixture of annoyance and arousal he still felt. Goddamn undead yuppie.   
  
Six or seven shots later, Worth leaned his head back against the wall behind his desk, chair tipped back precariously on two legs and feet propped up on a pile of papers. Ash drifted down to the floor from the cigarette dangling between bony, nicotine-stained fingers. He let his eyes fall shut, relishing the warm glow, and wondered idly what Conrad was doing.  
  
 _Oh, mother'a Christ_ , his thoughts derailed in annoyance. What the fuck was he still thinking about him for?  _Ridiculous. Bloody fuckin' ridiculous, what that is._  He let the chair fall forwards with a thud and reached for the bottle, only to find it empty save for a few dregs. He squinted angrily at it for a moment and then tipped its meager contents down his throat. With one last derisive glare at the empty vessel, Worth pitched the thing across the room, and the sound of it shattering against a filing cabinet brought only the ghost of a smile to his lips.   
  
Before he had time to wonder whether or not he should try another bottle, there was a faint knock at the door. Worth quirked an eyebrow---apparently he wasn't the only one still musing over the night's earlier episode. Maybe Conrad could be persuaded to pick up where they'd left off, or maybe the vampire had just come back to shout at him some more. Even the latter was preferable to boredom.  
  
Worth stood up (feeling the ground shift and sway only a little beneath him---after all these years, damn him if he couldn't hold his whiskey) and made his way around to the front of his desk. “Door's open,” he called out gruffly, flicking open his lighter and pulling another cigarette out of the pack in the front pocket of his coat.   
  
The office door swung wide. The vampire who came through it---and there was no doubt in Worth's mind that he  _was_  a vampire---was a stranger. Tall and dark-skinned, dressed in a stylish brown blazer and black slacks, his lanky form seemed almost to vibrate with restless energy. He cocked his head to the side and smiled, all teeth and confidence, and Worth felt something in the pit of his stomach turn over. Whiny, repressed art-fag vampires he could handle. This, on the other hand, was something he did not want in his office, or anywhere near his person.   
  
He took a long drag of the cigarette and straightened up a little, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Help you with somethin'?”  
  
“Hope so, Doc,” the vampire grinned, red and white eyes ( _the fuck's wrong with the left one?_ ) sizing up the other man. A pause, and then, “Right, manners, of course. Name's Casimiro.” He extended a hand, which Worth reluctantly took---the casual strength with which the vampire gripped and shook his hand made his stomach flip back over again.   
  
“Enchanted,” the doctor muttered absent-mindedly. He could swear he'd heard the name somewhere, but he'd probably remember meeting somebody as...distinctive as this Casimiro.   
  
“Pleasure's all mine,” and now the vampire was definitely leering at him, how was _that_  for unsettling. “I've heard so much about you.”  
  
 _Aww, fuck,_  and it clicked. “Monty?”   
  
“That's him. Man's got more connections than the devil himself,” Casimiro replied, his eyes finally leaving Worth's to glance curiously around the office.   
  
 _And a bigger mouth,_  Worth thought miserably. He couldn't remember when that conversation with Lamont had taken place, but his hazy mind managed to call up the basics--- _pair of rogue vampires, Casimiro and...Finas,_  he thought, sounded right. _Dangerous. Particularly the tall one, with the...white eye. Shit._  He wondered where the other one was, and how thankful (if at all) he should be that there was only one of them present. Why the fuck had Monty told them about  _him_? He made a mental note to hit the bastard that much harder the next time he saw him.  
  
“Right.” The doctor shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Even with the whiskey dragging slightly at the edges of his consciousness, he was sharp enough to be sizing up the situation. The small scalpel tucked into the sleeve of his coat would be of little use. His eyes drifted across the cracked tile floor and landed on the broken neck of the liquor bottle, maybe six or seven feet away. He knew he could be fast when he needed to be, but he wasn't an idiot—there was no way he could get there in time if the vampire made a move. “Well, any friend o' Monty's a friend o' mine,” he continued, with a smile that was more an assertive baring of teeth than a friendly gesture. He couldn't beat the vampire in  _that_  department, either, but Worth wasn't one to show any kind of weakness, particularly when faced with a predator.  
  
“That's a relief,” Casimiro replied, meeting Worth's challenge with a display of his own wickedly pointed fangs. “Then you wouldn't say no to a little drink, with a friend? I hear you rarely say no to a drink.” The vampire laughed, a merciless, twisted sound.   
  
Worth couldn't help but flinch, but he resisted the urge to back away, even as Casimiro took a step forward. “Think I've had my fill fer t'night,” he answered, meeting the other man's truly disturbing gaze.  
  
“Not a problem,” Casimiro continued, advancing another few steps.   
  
Well, if the vampire was done beating around the bush, so was he---Worth squared his shoulders defensively. “Ah-ah,” he chided. “I ain't yer martini. Think y've got the wrong man.”   
  
Casimiro furrowed his brow and tilted his head, mocking confusion. “Really? 'Cause Lamont's not the only friend we have in common, Doc, and I don't think you've been turning  _him_  away.”   
  
“Connie?” Worth blurted incredulously, cigarette tumbling from his open mouth. “The fuck're you on about?”   
  
The vampire's devious grin fell slack, replaced by a look of impatience. “Don't fuck with me, Worth. I saw him tonight. Your scent was all over him.”   
  
The doctor felt a brief pang of concern for the pathetic young vampire, and then shoved it back down into the well-hidden mental compartment where he stored anything compassionate having to do with Conrad. He had a pretty good feeling Connie was okay (at least as far as he was ever “okay”), but it did little to reassure Worth that his own much more vulnerable mortality wasn't on the line. “Yeah? Well 'm closed fer the night,” he scowled. “Better luck next time.”  
  
Casimiro's eyes flashed angrily. “You gonna tell me you're open for some useless fucking weak-blood mistake? That spineless piece of shit's only got one good tooth.”  
  
“An' you only got one good eye, pup, so I don't see much of a trade,” Worth shot back with a sneer, unable to restrain himself.  
  
What came next happened so quickly it was a miracle that the slightly inebriated doctor could even follow the action, much less keep up. Casimiro's visage seemed to flicker, replaced for a second by something bone-white and monstrously deformed, and then his fist (claw?) was moving towards Worth's face in a violent blur. Worth dodged left at the last second, felt the rush of air against his cheek and then propelled himself clumsily forward in the direction of the broken bottle neck he'd been eyeing. The vampire was already turning, and deftly caught him by the fur collar of his coat as he made a lunge for the floor. Casimiro gave a hard tug backwards, but Worth let his arms go limp and kicked his body forwards, and the coat peeled off with a soft ripping sound. His favorite goddamn coat.  _Motherfucker'll pay for that,_  he thought murderously, but then the floor was rushing up to meet him.  
  
The impact knocked the wind out of his chest and sent a shooting pain up his side, but he stretched his arm out and managed to close his fingers around the bottle neck, pulling it back and rolling over as Casimiro's shadow fell across him. Casimiro bent and clutched a fist-full of the front of Worth's shirt, yanking him back up to his feet as effortlessly as if the man were a rag doll. The doctor swung the broken glass in a glinting arc, aiming for the vampire's throat, but then somehow Casimiro was behind him. A powerful kick to the small of his back sent Worth stumbling across the room to sprawl over his desk, wind knocked out of him yet again and his makeshift weapon lost in the fray. Before he could recover enough to pull himself up, the vampire had a hold of both his wrists and was pressing him down onto the desk top, one arm twisted painfully behind his back. Checkmate.  
  
“You finished fucking around?” Casimiro hissed into his ear, wrenching his arm back and eliciting a sharp gasp.   
  
“Did I---nngh---strike a nerve, princess?” A little blood trickled down where Worth's grin was mashed sideways onto the desk.   
  
“You know, I think you got me confused with your little _boyfriend_. See, I have absolutely no problem drinking you dry right here and kicking your empty husk to the curb. But that wouldn't be nearly as much fun for either of us.”   
  
 _As much fun as what?_  Worth wondered darkly. Adrenaline was surging through his system, mixing with the whiskey and making him giddy. He was aware of the way his body was beginning to respond to the pain and pressure applied by the other man, but his mind insisted that  _murderous psychotic stranger_ should really be more of a turn-off than anything. A man had to have some standards, right?   
  
“So we can do this the easy way, or I can fucking kill you, but either way I'm getting what I want, understand?” Casimiro continued, punctuating the statement with another sharp twist of Worth's strained arm.   
  
“An' who's to say y'won't kill me anyway?” Worth grimaced, shutting his eyes tight against the pain, even as some part of him thrilled at the intensity of the sensation.  
  
Casimiro relaxed his grip. “I'm a man of my word, Doc. Don't you trust me?” he purred, and let go, sliding back off the other man like a snake recoiling.   
  
Worth turned and rubbed at his sore limb. “S'pose I ain't got too much choice.”  _You knew this was going to happen_ , whispered something very far back in the shadows of his mind.  _You let it happen._  He decided to ignore it. Certainly he could still get out of this, he just had to play along until the vampire's guard was down.  
  
“That's the spirit.” Another smug grin, and then Casimiro shrugged off his blazer. “Now take off the shirt.”  
  
“'Scuse me?”   
  
“You got a hearing problem, old man? It comes off or it turns red. Up to you.” The vampire was undoing the buttons of his own dress shirt, and Worth stole a sidelong look at the smooth brown skin revealed. “Personally, I'd rather not have to dry clean this one.”  
  
“'Is it just me, or are all you vamps gayer'n a pack o' prancin' unicorns?” Worth muttered, turning away and lifting his faded black t-shirt up over his skinny shoulders begrudgingly.   
  
There was a snort from behind him. “You've obviously never actually met a unicorn. Those fuckers'll gore you as soon as look at you.”  
  
“Don't mean they ain't queer as—-fuck!” Worth flinched as a cold hand curved around his waist, pulling him sharply back against Casimiro's equally cool torso. The vampire's other hand snaked up and around to close on his jaw, wrenching his head sideways, and then he felt the lightest prick of fangs brush teasingly against his neck.  _Fangs, plural_. How much more would it hurt? A flutter of anticipation and arousal caused his breath to hitch momentarily, even as the sober part of his mind reminded him that he must stay focused, must not get carried away. He could still make a break for it—-he had to make a break for it. It would be far too easy to die like this.   
  
 _Never stopped you from having fun before,_  whispered that hidden thing, and he had to admit it had a point. But there was a vital difference---with drink or drugs, with knives, with Conrad, it was always Worth in control. Even when it felt like he had pushed it to the brink,  _he'd_ done the pushing. Even when everyone else in his life was certain that he'd meet an early end, he clung to the edge of the world, sure that he could pull himself back up if he chose. It was all about choice. Control.   
  
Control had gone out his front door the moment Casimiro had opened it. He felt as much as heard the laughter behind him, a low, dark rumbling in the vampire's chest.  
  
“Scared?” Casimiro whispered playfully into his ear.   
  
 _Yes_ , answered that subconscious demon,  _yes, and you love it. You need it. Let it happen._  
  
Worth rolled his eyes. “Shakin' in my goddamn boots,” he scoffed. “You gonna do it or not?” Christ, he hadn't meant that to sound as impatient as it did. He was pretty damn close to aching for it, and if he let on, if he let himself go, it would be over. _Run,_  willed the last shred of his self-control.  _Run now._  
  
“Don't worry,” came the reply. “I'll make it worth your while.”  
  
A sudden shiver as Casimiro's thumb traced the line of a particularly deep scar across Worth's ribs, and his bluff had been called.   
  
His whole body tensed at the touch, and the vampire responded by dragging his nails sharply up over the doctor's ribs, drawing bright beads of blood to the surface and sending white hot sparks of pain racing up the man's torso. Worth's hands clenched reflexively at his sides, nails digging into his palms.  
  
“Like that, huh?” the vampire smirked. “Now, 'fess up, Doc. I bet you think your boy bites hard. Makes you feel like you're flirting with death? That kind of thing get you off?”  
  
“Sure don't get off listenin' to your bullshit,” Worth snapped, head still firmly held in place by Casimiro's iron grip.   
  
“Ah, but this is important, so pay attention.” The voice at his ear dropped suddenly, so full of venom it sent a chill through Worth's bloodstream. “You don't know shit about death, and up 'til now you've just been playing at pain. I'm gonna teach you a lesson tonight, and if you live through it, those little games you play with Connie aren't ever gonna cut it for you again.”   
  
Despite the fact that he took the threat (promise? invitation?) seriously, Worth had just about had it with the theatricality. Delayed gratification wasn't exactly his cup of tea. One thing could be said for Conrad---he usually just cut to the chase. “Know what I think? All bark and no bite, fuckin'---”  
  
In a flash, Casimiro had let go of Worth's jaw and hooked his arm around the man's throat. In a choke-hold between forearm and shoulder, Worth felt his airway close off and he clawed desperately for release.   
“Lesson number one,” he heard faintly through the blood singing in his ears, Casimiro's voice impossibly casual. “Breathing is a privilege. Also a weakness.”   
  
 _Point taken_ , sure, but the pressure wasn't letting up, and Worth was beginning to realize that no amount of scratching and writhing was having any impact on the vampire. His oxygen-starved mind raced---this was just some kind of sick game, of course, in a moment he would let go and Worth would breathe again, there could be no possible reason for the vampire to simply choke him to death...Worth's frenzied grip on Casimiro's arm started to loosen, and his body sagged backwards into the painful embrace. Everything started to blur, and he was only dimly aware of the vampire's cool fingers trailing down his stomach.   
  
And...fuck, _what?_  was all his brain could manage as Casimiro undid the front of Worth's trousers. His chest felt as if it would burst, and white spots threatened to consume his fading vision, but  _oh holy fuck_ , that felt impossibly good, how in hell was he so goddamned hard? He was teetering on the outer edges of consciousness, but suddenly every ounce of feeling was redirected to the firm hand on his cock, as if pleasure had rushed in to fill the space so recently vacated by his breath.  
  
“Also...,” the vampire murmured, stroking gently even as he maintained his brutal hold on Worth's throat. “Also, you see? Two-sided coin.”   
  
Worth's eyes began to roll back, and the world tipped into darkness, all sensation gone except for the fierce, sweet ache of arousal...and even that was slipping quickly away. Distant as a dream, a sigh of disdain from behind him, and then the pressure on his trachea (as well as all contact below) was gone. Everything snapped viciously back into focus as he gasped for air, coughing and sputtering, and he clung to Casimiro's arm to keep from falling to the floor.   
  
“Now, that's pathetic, you trying to pass out on me already. And here I thought you were a man with some stamina, Doc.”   
  
“Hhhk...you're....bloody fuckin' mental,” Worth croaked, finally regaining his balance.  _Again. Do it again._ He gripped the vampire's wrist and then held still, honestly unsure whether to push the arm back across his throat or to pull it further away.   
  
The illusion of control was short-lived. “Mm? More? Sure you don't want a time out? Well, if you insist---”   
  
His body responded on auto-pilot, thrashing and clawing again, and then Casimiro was chiding him--- “Keep it up, go on, wear yourself out before we even get started,”---and in his mind he was struggling to calm down, to let go. _Let go,_  came the whisper,  _let somebody else drive. Just ride, ride it all the way out to the edge._ He closed his eyes and willed his body to be still, let himself unclench until he could only feel two points of pressure---throat and cock, choke-tight with pain and pleasure.   
  
“Good,” murmured Casimiro, rough palm twisting its way up Worth's shaft, deft fingers working him over.  
  
Worth couldn't even hear him anymore. He was gone, lost in it, rushing towards orgasm or oblivion, whichever came first. He was surging, and slipping, in a race with himself.  _Win, lose, it's all the same,_  hissed the thing in his mind, the only voice he could focus on.  _He'll be there if you cross the finish line. He'll be there if you fall. And that's the secret, isn't it? You don't even care what happens. You don't care if you live or die._  
  
It occurred to him, suddenly lucid again, that the last part might not actually be true. It'd been true before, sure, but lately...well, there'd be unintended consequences for others. Hanna probably wouldn't survive, and he couldn't have that on his conscience. And Conrad...  
  
Conrad. Here he was, in the middle of a sexual encounter with another vampire, quite possibly about to die, and he had managed to bring himself all the way back to worrying about his relationship with a neurotic graphic designer. Un-fucking-believable. He deserved whatever was coming to him, that was for sure.   
  
But now it was Conrad's face in his mind, Conrad's hands on him, Conrad's body---not the cool, collected prowess of Casimiro, but the raw, terrified power of someone desperately trying to hold himself together and failing at every turn. It was Conrad hurting him, and hating him, and the image-- the feeling---was all he needed to push him over the edge.   
  
He started to come, and at the same time Casimiro let go of his throat. He drew breath involuntarily, so deeply it stung his chest, body spasming with the force of his climax, but the air was forced out again in a cry of shock and pain as the vampire sunk his teeth into his neck. A flood of adrenaline, hot euphoria running through him, and he crested again. He couldn't remember ever coming so hard or so long, ever feeling so much pain mixed with so much intense pleasure. A flash of thought, that this might really be the last time.  _Not a bad way to go, all things considered._  
  
He couldn't help but smile, weakly, as the world blinked out.   
  
* * *  
  
When he came to, he was aching, and sticky, exhausted and alone. He lay quietly, flat on his back, reassuring himself that he was, in fact, alive. Casimiro had taken what he'd wanted, and he'd left. A more religious man might call it a miracle. Worth decided it was just dumb luck.   
  
After a few minutes, he managed to pull himself up into a sitting position, propped against the leg of his desk. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out, but the blood on his shoulder and chest was dry, and the wound itself seemed to be beginning the process of scabbing over. He had a massive bump on the back of his head---evidently Casimiro had just let him drop---but other than bruises and blood loss, he'd gotten away relatively unscathed.   
  
Physically unscathed. He was pretty sure he'd just developed a new addiction, and the vampire had been right: things weren't going to be the same with Conrad after this. He'd want more now, maybe more than Conrad could give him. Probably more than was good for either of them, but wasn't that just the same old song and dance?  
  
 _You can handle it,_  encouraged the voice in his head, sounding far away and, for once, somewhat sated. And Conrad? Conrad was young pup, after all, and now Worth just had a few new tricks to teach him.


End file.
